“Don’t start,” I said. Joking? Maybe. “Coffee?”
“You know how to make coffee?”
“I observe while waiting in line at Starbucks.”
“I’d help, but the cat might feel rejected.”
The cat never raised its head.
I ground beans and measured water. Sort of. I’m more of a guesser.
“Bagel?”
Ryan nodded. I popped two in the toaster, took cream cheese from the fridge. Got mugs. Napkins. Spoons. Back to the fridge for cream. Back to the drawer for knives. Back to the cabinet for plates.
Ryan’s presence was making me edgy as hell.
Looking for diversion, I flicked on the tiny counter TV. It was still tuned to the local news channel I’d punched up before leaving for Rinaldi’s funeral.
“So.” Ryan sat back. “What’s up for today?”
I was about to provide a peevish response when the newscaster’s words registered.
“We could-”
“Shh.” I flapped a hand.
“Did you just shush me?”
“-in the front yard of his Pineville home. Neighbors spotted the body around seven this morning. Authorities believe Finney was shot sometime between ten and midnight last night.”
“Did the woman just shush me?” Ryan asked the cat.
The screen filled with footage of Finney’s small yellow house. Cruisers and other vehicles lined the curb. The ME van sat with doors winged out. On the lawn, a form lay motionless beneath plastic sheeting, beside it an upended roll-out trash can.
“Jesus.” One hand was pressed to my lips.
“Asa Finney was a self-proclaimed witch. One week ago, Jimmy Klapec’s headless body was found on the shore of Lake Wylie, its torso carved with satanic symbols. A suspect in the Klapec murder, Finney had just been released from police custody. Authorities continue to investigate possible links between the two killings.”
“That’s the man you spoke of last night.” All humor had gone from Ryan’s voice.
I nodded.
“Sonovabitch.”
Grabbing my phone, I punched Slidell’s number. Four rings. Five. Six.
“Slidell.” Barked.
“It’s Brennan. What happened?”
“I’m kinda busy here.”
“Summarize.”
“Finney’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“He was putting out the garbage when someone capped him.” In the background I could hear the usual crime-scene noises. Crackling radios. Voices calling out. Others answering.
“A drive-by?”
“Larabee says the gun was fired at relatively close range. Shoeprints in the dirt by the bushes. Looks like someone was waiting for him.”
I struggled to form the words.
“Same weapon as Rinaldi?”
“This was a forty-five. Eddie got it with a nine-millimeter.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Neighbor two doors down saw a Volkswagen Jetta cruising the block late yesterday. Thought it looked suspicious. Got a plate number.”
“What’s your read?” There was no need to spell out my meaning.
“This plays different.”
“How so?”
“It’s sloppy. Eddie’s hit was clean.”
“That’s it?”
“Someone really wanted this guy dead. Six slugs worth.”
Dial tone.
Slamming the phone, I began pacing the kitchen. How had this happened? Had Slidell and I put an innocent man at risk? Was Finney guilty and someone felt the need to take him out?
What someone?
The someone who killed Klapec? Rinaldi? Slidell thinks not Rinaldi.
What would I tell Jennifer Roberts?
Feeling the soft pressure of hands on my shoulders, I turned. Ryan’s eyes were filled with concern.
“Come.” I allowed myself to be led to the table. “Sit.”
I dropped into a chair.
“Deep breath.”
I inhaled. Exhaled.
Ryan handed me a mug, then sat back and assumed a listening posture.
OK. Cop stuff. Safe ground.
I told him what I’d learned from Slidell.
“Was Finney robbed? Was the house burglarized?”
I hadn’t asked. Retrieving the handheld, I phoned Slidell again. Six rings, then I was rolled to voice mail. I didn’t bother leaving a message.
I took a swig of coffee. “I can’t help feeling Finney’s death was my fault.”
“CT.” Ryan used one of our codes. Crazy talk.
Grabbing the phone, I dialed again. As before, Slidell ignored my call.
“Crap.” The device hit the table with a sharp crack.
Ryan’s brows floated up, but he made no comment.
I raised my hands in frustration. “Why Finney?”
Knowing the question was rhetorical, Ryan didn’t answer.
“Nothing in this investigation makes sense. Cuervo, a
Ryan didn’t interrupt.
“Klapec, a chicken hawk, killed by Satanists and dumped by a lake. Hell, we don’t even have a cause of death in that one.”
I lifted, then smacked down my mug. Droplets jumped the rim and landed on the table.
“And now the asshole detective I’m working with won’t take my calls.”
As if on cue, the phone rang.
Without thinking, I snatched it up.
“About time.” I didn’t even come close to civil.
“It’s Larke Tyrell, Tempe.”
I closed my eyes. At that moment, my battered nerves couldn’t take more strain.
“Good morning, Larke. How are things?” OK. That sounded calm.
“Not good.”
My upper teeth clamped onto my lower lip.
“You spoke to the media after I gave direct orders to the contrary.”
“Lingo was campaigning at Rinaldi’s funeral.”
“I don’t care if the man was doing tai chi naked on the statehouse lawn.” Tyrell was also struggling to keep his voice even. “With regret I must inform you that your services are no longer needed by this office.”
My face went hot.
“Lingo is dangerous,” I said.
